10. Lina
Lina
T he massive warrior steps away and is quickly replaced by a dozen men in golden skull masks who spread out to surround us. Their bodies are covered by long red cloaks, and they each wear a gem hanging on the end of a long chain.
“Move!” one of them yells.
The sharp whir of a whip makes me jump, and my knees nearly buckle. “No,” I whisper.
But somehow, my body moves as commanded. I follow along with the people around me through the trees, trying not to panic. I am barely holding on. Barely breathing. Barely remaining upright.
Though the sun is out of sight, the orange cast on the sky suggests it is close to setting.
We move slowly on weak legs and starved bodies. An older woman stumbles to her knees, and without thinking, I rush to help her up. She smiles, exposing rotten teeth.
I smile back and somehow find the strength to support her weight along with mine.
Her arm against mine is a comfort, despite the extra effort required. Down a small hill, we find more refugees gathered between a wooden platform and a large pond of brown water before a massive open cave.
I gasp as I peer up at the giant skull face carved into the side of the mountain. Its mouth is gaping open like it’s screaming. How is that even possible?
“Keep moving!” a warrior shouts.
I stumble forward and follow my small group down the grassy hill, straight into the brown water. It splashes against my burning skin. I need water like I need air, but even so, I hold back until others have drunk first.
I count to three, that’s the most patience I am capable of before I dunk my head. I slurp as much of the questionable water as I am able before the masked men come. Someone grabs me by the hair and shoves me to the bank. I scramble up, trying my best to obey.
The men in skull masks herd us toward a circle beside the platform where the others are crowded together. Some have on nice clothes, like they came for a banquet. Some have on rags.
My breathing is labored as I brush my wet hair from my eyes and carefully step over the scorched black line that marks the circle.
The crowd parts to make room for us. One woman in a lush blue skirt eyes me and scoffs. A man bumps into me then shuffles away without a reaction in his sunken eyes.
I’ve known there are cities still packed with people, but I’ve seen so few in the last few years it still boggles my mind to be around so many. Life still exists in this broken world, I know, but sometimes I forget.
“Welcome, refugees,” a sweet voice calls, sending unnatural stillness to spread through the circle.
I stare up in awe at a woman who is simultaneously the most beautiful and the most horrifying woman I’ve ever seen.
She is adorned with shining golden silk, draped elegantly on her slender body, breasts nearly exposed. Her lips more plump than is natural. Her hair a flaming red.
When the golden priestess came to my village years ago, I only saw her from afar, but I am almost certain she did not have red hair like this.
Is the hate and rage stirring in my belly unfair? She is not the same person who condemned Lucca. But she is, perhaps, the one who will condemn me.
“Tonight will be the most important night of your lives. We will celebrate survival and victory and prosperity, together as one. We will cull the curses that plague you, and by morning, you will know your true place. We will eat and drink and dance and give thanks to the Ancient One who has seen fit to save you from the horrors of the world and give you true peace.”
“Yes,” the mousy woman near me whispers again. “Mercy, mercy.”
“The Ancient One is renowned for his mercy, yes.” The priestess’s eyes are soft, her expression one of hope as she peers at the woman still on her knees.
“You have encountered countless traumas. Starvation and violence—the great curse. This curse spares no one out there.” She points to the trees behind us. “But here, we have a sanctuary of peace and prosperity where it cannot reach us.”
The strangers around me murmur, hopeful. Did they come here willingly, hoping the Drak’yn people would accept them and save them from the pain of the world? Or were they taken like me?
“Tonight, the Ancient One will choose your fate. Some will be accepted as equals in our community. Some will be chosen to become warriors or servants. Some, proselytes, will give their lives to Nihil, the great god of death. There is much work to be done! There is a place for each of you.”
“See,” a man whispers to a woman. “They’re going to save us.”
I swallow. For a moment, I consider the possibility that I’ve been wrong. That this place could have some good among the bad. Maybe I’ll be cared for in the way I’ve ached for since the day my mother died.
But the pressure on my chest, and the remembered whispers of past survivors, tells me that while you should never give up, that does not mean blind trust.
Hope means continuing to fight. It does not mean assuming the best just because you want it so badly.
“Lina?” someone whispers from inside the mass of people.
My heart skips a beat. I don’t recognize the voice.
“Lina!” she calls again. My heart aches, mind spinning. Until an old woman pushes through the bodies to reach me.
I recognize her face, but it takes a moment to place her.
“Lorraine?”
Her smile is so sincere. Her eyes alight with hope.
“You made it after all! I wasn’t sure in all that mess in the forest.”
I blink. “Yes, we got away for a short time, but then they came and—” I frown, looking around. “Is it just you?” I ask, searching for her husband and son. I know someone died in that forest, but it’s still hard to imagine her joyous expression if her family was lost so recently.
Her smile slips, eyes unfocused as if remembering a dream. “Yes. I—I was the only one blessed to make it this far.”
I swallow.
“You’ll see,” she whispers, arm curled in mine. “We’ll be okay here. We made it this far and we—Well, there is hope here.”
They killed your husband , I want to tell her.
They sliced through him before asking any questions. That is not the kind of saviors I would beg to accept me. They may keep people alive in a crumbling world, but some fates are worse than death.
Her breath hitches. She wants to believe so badly.
I too want to believe that there is hope somewhere in the shadows of this place. That despite the pulsing energy that raises the hair on my arms and sends a shudder through my heart, there is something good to be found.
“It’s not—it’s not what I would have chosen,” Lorraine continues, “but they have food and clothing, and they keep their people safe. We just need to be chosen.”
Chosen . They allow some to live, and others—What happens to the others?
I swallow, looking at the other desperate souls around me. Many are barefoot. All smeared in dirt, regardless of the quality of their clothing. Some are on their knees, crying out to the masked beings walking around the circle of people. “Save us!” they cry.
“Help,” one rasps with a hoarse voice. There is blood dripping down her arm. Her fingers are caked with it. Her breaths tremble. “Please help.”
I want to help her, but I don’t know how.
These people have come from miles in every direction. Most are from Ruthend, I assume. Since it fell to rebels recently, there are thousands searching for a new life.
I cannot imagine what they’ve been told to believe this is their best option.
But then again, Lorraine and I were not given a choice, so perhaps they weren't either.
“How long have these people been here?” I ask Lorraine. “How many come here by their own will?”
She takes in a long breath before answering. “I know little more than you. Most have been here the better part of a day. Some two or three, from what I’ve heard.”
Most of the people here are women. Because they didn’t fight back? Or another sinister reason?
At the center of the area we have been gathered, there is a small circle of stones surrounding blackened rubble and ash, and a few glowing embers. I tap one of the stones with my toe. A bonfire?
There’s a grating sound in the distance. A rumble beneath our feet.
No one seems to pay mind to the strange sounds and sensations. A woman beside me calls out to the masked beings. More calls rise as the sun slowly lowers in the sky.
There is no pyre connected to the fire ring, but after the tales I grew up hearing, I can’t help but wonder if one will be added. Will they burn people alive tonight? Will the crowd cheer while it happens?
The temperature drops quickly as daylight dims. Men and women, all wearing skull masks, cross the wooden platform ahead and light several torches.
Then, a line of women in short brown dresses come out carrying trays of wooden cups. The refugees don’t dare cross the line of the circle, but they reach out for the cups desperately.
What happens if we leave the circle?
I too find myself eager for more liquid to coat my dry tongue, but as the cups begin to spread around the clearing, I see the bright red liquid slipping down chins as they chug.
I am suddenly less eager to accept the offering. What is in it?
“Keep your cup!” one of the women in cloth dresses instructs. “We will refill them! No one will be lacking tonight.”
The women around me cheer.
I shift toward the center of the circle, and Lorraine sticks close to me, as the others cry out for more and more of the red juice.
Before long, the energy shifts from desperation to calm and joyous. The women begin dancing to no music at all. The skull-masked people surround the circle and watch.
“You,” a voice growls. The crying stops. The crowd stills.
A massive man stomps forward, crossing the barrier into the refugees. He points and again says, “You.”
The girl with blood pooling in her hands gasps. “Me,” she says with a hushed tone of irreverence, as if being chosen by a god.
“Come,” he says.
“Chosen,” someone whispers.
Several other voices join a soft chorus, repeating the same word. Chosen .
These people are so convinced that it is the light at the end of their tunnel, but all I see is darkness. I press my eyes closed tight and pull my arm from Lorraine, instead gripping both around my chest and begin my own prayer.
Even knowing it’s meaningless, here of all places. I don’t know what to even pray for, but the words fall upon my lips without thought.
In the darkness, there is light. With the faithless, hope will rise.
I don’t know if I believe the old prophecies. Poets of thousands of years ago sowing life into words.
“ They have meaning, only if you believe ,” my mother had told me.
Do I believe?
In the gods? No. In hope and light? Yes.
In love? In Astella?
“Yes,” I whisper the word aloud without meaning to.
I feel the evil that slithers through this place. The ground hums with it.
My eyes fly open when I hear his voice. “She is chosen!” the masked man cries, now on the platform with the bleeding girl. He drops to his knees beside her and removes his mask to reveal a shaven head and a pale face.
He jerks her bloody wrist over his open lips. The woman smiles wide, looking up to the sky as a drop of blood falls into his mouth.
I shiver.
“More,” he pleads.
A masked woman approaches, red blade in hand. She grabs the girl’s other arm and, without warning, slices.
The girl’s skin splits so easily. Red pours from her flesh as a scream pours from her lips.
“Life can be stolen, but the light of the faithful remains,” I whisper.
More masked people arrive on the stage. Hands grab the girl. Mouths lap at her open flesh, slurping her blood.
I gag, but I cannot pull my eyes away. As a new woman approaches from behind. She grips the girl's hair and then takes the red blade to her skin once more.
This time, the girl doesn’t even scream as the flesh of her neck is ripped wide open and her blood gushes down onto the masked beings below her.